


Behold Her

by ItFeelsSoWrite



Category: Lovestruck - Fandom, Queen of Thieves (Voltage Visual Novel)
Genre: Episode 5, F/F, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23253469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItFeelsSoWrite/pseuds/ItFeelsSoWrite
Summary: An altered and extended version of the heart option in Vivienne's route, season 3, episode 5.
Relationships: Vivienne Tang/Main Character
Kudos: 36





	Behold Her

**Author's Note:**

> It is recommended you have watched up to episode 3.05 in Vivienne's route before reading. You may also prefer to watch the episode (with heart option) before reading, as the fiction follows it closely -- until it doesn't. Please note I adore the original scene. This is meant as an exploration and compliment, rather than "the way it should have gone". Oh yeah, and MC is named Eloise.

"What are you doing to me?" I mumble breathlessly, eyes docked in Vivienne's so that I don't know where she's maneuvering me until I am simultaneously touching and being touched. When I feel her hand guide mine down my navel, I expect the tease to continue, for her to divert our hands to my inner thigh, or to change her mind like Vivienne is wont to do and bring our hands back to my breast. I do not expect the sudden, firm cup of Vivienne's fingers at the back of mine, curling us hard between my thighs.

I push down my squeak of heated surprise with a gulping inhale, eyes squeezing shut briefly. I notice Vivienne doesn't respond to me until my eyes are open and focused on her once more, pressing her for more than just an answer.

"Absolutely nothing." Vivienne cannot help the pleased smile on her lips, any more than she can help giving our lingering grip one last, tight pulse before releasing me. "You're doing this to yourself. And you're going to show me what I want to see." 

When I look into Vivienne's eyes, they are molten with desire. For her flawless execution of the command, it's those same hungry eyes steady in mine, awaiting _my_ participation that betrays where the power currently resides. She _wants_ me.

(She can have me. Doesn't she know that by now?)

"Another game?" I call her on it. She grins, head cocking slightly.

"I do love playing with you." She knows the words won't stoke my flames further, because I've shown I recognize what her walls look like. This one she throws up preemptively, and I'm not sure whether to be thankful she is up front while I am still fairly clear-headed or frustrated this is a separation that needs clarifying in Vivienne's world.

"So what do you want to see?" I decide to be grateful, unable to sit out when it comes to Vivienne. Her dark eyes light with glee and . . . something else. Surprise, I think. (No. Not surprise. **Veneration**.) I can feel the shift of her appreciation as she resumes the drape of her palm over the back of my hand. We cup my cheek, hug the curve of my jaw down to my throat. As our fingertips stroke back and forth along my collarbone, I know she's remembering the wreath of love marks I let her leave days earlier. It is nearly gone now, only the most persistent blossoms lingering as faint, pink dashes. She makes me trace and prod each, proudly pointing out the signature of her lips and teeth, faintly dissatisfied that I wear fewer than the days before, and will have fewer yet tomorrow. I think she might remedy this, the way her teeth worry her bottom lip, but she finally answers instead, eyes landing hard in mine.

"Everything."

I flush at the unabashed voracity of the demand, clear she will be satisfied with nothing less. I can see in her eyes, before she takes me by the shoulders and turns my back to her, she knows _exactly_ what "everything" entails already. She shows me as much as I feel the warmth of her front spoon me, one hand snaking around my waist to slowly begin riding my skirt up.

I shiver pleasurably at the firm trace of Vivienne's fingertips, watching the show as intended in the vanity mirror Vivienne has angled us toward. She watches me, her eyes over my shoulders rarely leaving my expression. Her pace is slow, deliberate, and in the build she is trying to create, I cannot help but make her work harder for my cooperation.

"I can do that." My intentional vagueness brings Vivienne's eyes to me in a new way. She's listening. Present. Even curious. "If you want me to touch you like this, Vivienne, you only have to ask." A nearly imperceptible smile twitches at the corner of her lip. She looks touched. Truly. But not at all convinced to _be_ touched.

The steady ascension of Vivienne's hand stills, then backtracks down my thigh until her palm is merely stroking up and down. It's an oddly conversational touch, given how much of me she currently possesses, and it makes me feel like perhaps she is willing to hear me out. I press my advantage, so rarely given. "You could have this, but you'd rather torture both of us." She laughs at this, eyes narrowing with mirth.

"Of course I'd rather torture myself." Vivienne's ascent resumes, the soft stroke of her palm replaced with the teasing bite of her carmine nails as they drag up the flexing tendon of my inner thigh. "If it doesn't hurt, there's no point. If it doesn't even leave a bruise . . ." Her murmured words stir hot against my ear, the last few trickling from her lips so slowly I am helpless but to watch in anticipation. Her reflection grins back at me and it is exactly then I yelp in pain, eyes flying to the sharp and searing sensation administered by Vivienne's pinch. It doesn't hurt until the very last tweak, where I'm certain she's bruised me as I feel napalm erupt beneath welting skin. "Where's the proof it even happened?" 

I hiss between my teeth as Vivienne's touch turns soothing, gently massaging around the welt to relieve the swelling. She watches my expression with sympathy, along with the hitching rise and fall of my chest until it has evened out. Then all at once, the drape of her falls away, chilling me in a way that makes me long for the brush fire of her bruises if only for the warmth.

"Undress, please," Vivienne asks, in that almost deferential request of hers. (Please. Always please. So polite for a cat burglar . . .) "Eloise." I snap back to her at the sound of my name and find her pulling out the vanity chair. The way she perches behind it, fingers clasped neatly across its high back, I know she intends for me to sit. "Please," she repeats, almost experimentally, eyes gleaming at the haste it stirs in me to obey. 

My top and skirt are off in seconds flat. I work the front clasp of my bra facing Vivienne and only mildly burn beneath her appraisal as I strip it away. "All the way?" I ask coyly, thumbs hooking into the hem of my underwear, teasing it down my hips. Vivienne's eyes pounce to mine and for a second I feel a thrill of danger, until it is overwhelmed by the sharp knotting Vivienne's, "yes, please", does to my stomach. If I had any more cards to delay with, I drop them then and there, along with my underwear.

"Sit here, please."

I realize as I take my seat in front of the vanity mirror, Vivienne's reflection towering tall behind me, that Vivienne's kinks checklist had been just that. A list. Like the "little lists" throughout my sketchbooks of places I want to go, things I want to see. I remember the neat crescent of Vivienne's fingernail tapping trepidatiously beneath the word "Rome". Then I remember how pleased -- and not at all surprised -- she had been to learn exhibitionism was a big yes on the Eloise kink scale. And where were we now?

Vivienne has given me the Louvre. The Mona Lisa. The Eiffel Tower. She is invested in my lists. I know Rome gives her pause. Perhaps for the same reason as kissing. But Vivienne is not withholding. Vivienne is giving me exactly what she can. And right now, that is a gracious audience.

"I'm not sure where to start." I confess, honestly still overwhelmed by the gravity of Vivienne's gesture. My hands feel like oven mitts, even if my body is alight with the anticipation of another first, and I can't imagine pawing myself so awkwardly with them until I hear Vivienne guide me.

"Start with your neck." I do, cupping one hand there the way Vivienne had earlier -- it's easier recalling and re-enacting her touch, the memory serving as both teacher and aphrodisiac. "Yes, just like that." Her praise singes my ears, and I find myself eagerly awaiting her next direction so that I might earn her praise again. "Show me where it feels good. Touch yourself there." 

I imagine touching her instead, eyes lulling closed to maintain the fantasy. Seeing her pale skin beneath my fingertips, my hands quickly embolden and roam with new purpose. I dock one hand at the base of my neck, giving full focus to the touch of the other as I knead my breast, rolling my nipple between the lengths of my fingers. I hear Vivienne's nails bite into the upholstery of the vanity chair and open my eyes to the sight of white-knuckled grips. I grin even as I gasp, still stimulating my breast as I begin to guide the hand resting at my throat down my torso. It's not until my fingertips brush coarse hairs that I grow self-conscious and freeze beneath Vivienne's gaze.

"Don't stop. You don't need me to do it for you." There is a firm patience in her tone that both discourages argument and inspires confidence. Any smart-mouth thoughts that might have normally taken root don't, only a burning desire to prove Vivienne right. I close my eyes again and--

"Ah ah ah. No. Not like that." Vivienne's voice as well as her touch startles me as she taps me on the shoulder correctively with the length of two fingers. I straighten up, still uncertain of what I did wrong until she points to the mirror, meeting me in its reflection. "Eyes on me." A strangled protest of impossibility rumbles in my throat as wildfire engulfs my face. 

(She truly means everything. Vivienne, you ask too much . . .)

An unconcerned smile flickers across Vivienne's lips, confident where I no longer am. "You know I love looking at your eyes when they glaze over and you go somewhere else."

"Vivienne, I-- . . . that is, it usually helps to keep my eyes closed at this point." Utterly unaffected, Vivienne holds my gaze as she repeats herself only once more.

"Make an exception for me."

(That's the thing. I make every exception for you.)

I keep my eyes open and resume, staring hard at her red lips, just south of that paint-stripping stare. I cannot meet it yet, and soon I don't have to, the slow dip and curl of my fingertip past my lips drawing her full attention as my shoulder blades roll into the back of the chair in response. I make the minute adjustments to relax my body while giving myself -- and Vivienne -- full access. Just the act of being spread wide before her is enough to burn away all remnants of shame, building my pleasure in a way akin to magic. No touch, no sound, just the mere _suggestion_ of Vivienne's enjoyment spurs me on and soon, I find it not only possible, but my desire to lock eyes with her. 

"You're shaking." I say through a soft laugh, not meaning to, but pleased all the more for it as the observation brings a furious blush to Vivienne's entire bust. Her hands haven't let go of the chair, not once, and I realize she won't -- or can't -- let go until our game comes to, ah, completion . . .

(What would she do if she wasn't anchored?)

"So are you." Vivienne deflects calmly, but I can see by the widening of her eyes -- and pupils -- that my observation stirs in her something feral and untended. She feels seen. It thrills her, I think, and then it terrifies her. 

A sharp jerk and cry from me dashes the encroaching apprehension in Vivienne's eyes away like a brandished torch, replacing it with ignited delight. I feel the heat of that ignited gaze acutely between my legs, where my fingertips are no longer experimental, but certain. "Ah!" I've found a pulse I can't relinquish -- I'm no longer shaking, I'm _trembling_. It is no longer a matter of if, but how long I can hold out before giving Vivienne everything.

My left hand flies to the back of the seat before I can help myself, needing purchase to more precisely roll into the touch of my fingertips. My hand is a hair's breadth away from Vivienne's, our pinkies side by side. So close, in fact, I feel her twitch. My grip tightens -- if she will deny me it, now's the time -- but she allows me my purchase, eyes raking hungrily over the new curves my body presents with the leverage. Our eyes seek the other's simultaneously as I feel and Vivienne reads the beginnings of my undoing. It takes everything in me to remain wide open for Vivienne -- I'm not being penetrated, but her eyes would beg otherwise. I beckon her deeper, wanting her to see the strength of my convictions and the truth of my promise.

Then I feel it. Louder than all other sensation, I feel Vivienne's pinky curl over mine.

I can't help myself. With that shock of contact, the smell of her smothering me, her smoldering black eyes boring into me, I groan her name in a low whisper -- and then my eyes finally do glaze over as I momentarily transcend my body.

I hear her inhale sharply, feel her pinky bear down with the rigidity of a talon before both her hands retract from the back of the chair.

"Vivienne?" I ask her reflection and get a panicked, wild stare back in response before she turns and cuts straight for the bathroom. The door shuts and the click of the lock is heard acutely in the dead silence that has fallen between us. A moment later, I hear the shower turn on.

(Fuck. I took it too far. I tested her rules.)

My first instinct is to berate myself; I know her lines, she's drawn them clearly. In bright red. She didn't want to be touched -- (wait, no, yes she does!) -- but. Not yet. Not tonight.

(But she's the one who made contact. I didn't cross her line. I met her at the wall. **She** crossed to **me**.)

Unable to hear anything else, I eventually realize that while the shower is running, the stream is uninterrupted. I sit up, catching the edge of the vanity with my palm for balance, aftershocks still leaving me weak-kneed. I meet my eyes in the mirror, asking my reflection in a glance if _she_ knows what I should do next. When she returns my inquisitive gaze with a hopelessly lost stare, I cut my losses and approach the bathroom door.

I know better than to knock. I don't want to intrude, only want an idea of where she's at mentally. I listen intently, for crying, for swearing, for anything. After another minute, I hear a disruption in the steady shower stream.

I gather my underclothes from the floor and redress, suddenly feeling too exposed now with no one else to see me. I crawl into bed and pretend I'm doing anything else but listening for the shower, and do not unfurl until I hear it stop. A few minutes later, Vivienne steps back into the room, naked. I hear a pattering as she crosses to the bed that ceases as she sinks into the mattress. She settles on her side, with her back to me, and when I press my forehead to her shoulders, I know the sound I heard had been her hair dripping. It's barely towel-dried, as thick as Vivienne's mane is, and already saturating her pillow.

Despite the relative heat of Hong Kong, Vivienne is ice cold and shivering. As I pull long, black strands of damp hair off of Vivienne's chest and shoulder, also ice-cold, I realize Vivienne had to have taken an arctic shower.

(Did she _literally_ cool off?)

Her shivering is audible now -- she's spread herself atop the sheets, leaving herself victim to the open air. I decide to ask for forgiveness rather than permission, not wanting her trembling from the cold a second longer. I mold myself to her back, an arm snaking tight about her bare waist, palm anchoring neutrally at the flat of her navel. I hold her, willing my warmth into her skin, shivering at the ice she trades me in return. 

I impose only long enough to bring her temperature back up. She hasn't said a single word since coming out of the bathroom. And while she hasn't protested my touch, she also has not reacted to it. I think she's placating me, and this hurts more than her telling me plainly not to touch her, but when I move to give her room, her arm reaches back and blankets mine. 

"Stay. Please."

Despite my running mind, I am spent by what we've just shared. I fall asleep holding her, a conversation I'm still not sure how to have petering off with my consciousness.


End file.
